


Not the One / While You Were Sleeping

by bayoublackjack



Series: Love in London [32]
Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blackmail, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, POV Molly Hooper, POV Sherlock Holmes, Relationship Problems, Secrets, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 13:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3611643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bayoublackjack/pseuds/bayoublackjack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly is confused when Sherlock suddenly pushes her away, but a mysterious painting hold a clue to everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not the One / While You Were Sleeping

If anyone would have told Molly that one day she would be lovers with Sherlock Holmes, she probably would have had them sectioned.  Even now, as she lay naked in her bed after an evening of _experimenting_ , she still couldn’t believe her fate.  With eyes still closed her eyes, she hugged her pillow and relived the memories.

She hadn’t even been expecting him.  Usually, he would summon her to Baker Street whenever he wanted to see her, but this time he showed up at her door unannounced.  Molly barely had time to react before he silenced her with a crushing kiss and requested to see her bedroom in order to confirm something.  Whether he did or not, Molly had no idea because they fell into bed soon after reaching her room and remained there for the rest of the night.

When Molly woke, she was a bit disheartened to discover Sherlock’s absence.  She crawled out of bed, draping the floral duvet around herself, and searched the rest of her tiny flat to no avail.  She checked her mobile for messages, but her inbox was as depressingly empty as her bed.  Often times when they had sex, he would disappear afterwards, but she would always find him playing his violin or studying his clue wall.  On the rare occasion that he left his flat completely, he’d send a short explanation via text.  Today, no such considerations had been given.

Filled with worry and a touch of dread, Molly dressed in a hurry and journeyed to Baker Street.  Upon reaching the top of the stairs, she spotted Sherlock, safe and sound, with all of his attention focused on a large canvas in his hands.

Molly cleared her throat to alert him to her arrival, but he didn’t stir.  She proceeded to speak anyway.  “What’s that?”

“A painting,” he said without lifting his eyes.

“For a case?”

“A gift from an admirer,” Sherlock answered then moved to tuck it away so she couldn’t see it.  When he finally looked in her direction, Molly couldn’t help feeling as those he was looking through her rather than at her.  “Why are you here?”

Molly took a step forward into the flat with hands clutched together uneasily.  “You left.”

“I had things.”

“You didn’t leave word.  I was worried.”

“It hardly seemed necessary,” Sherlock replied abruptly causing Molly to bristle.  “Nor does your presence now.”

Molly sighed softly.  “Necessary or not, I was concerned.  Is something wrong?  Are you…”  She paused midsentence as her eyes fell on a pair of shoes next to his chair.  Not just any shoes, a pair of women’s heels.  In was at that point that she also noticed there were two cups of tea set out.  “Is someone else here right now?”

“Yes.”

“A…a woman?”

“Yes.”

The flat was only so large.  It was only the two of them in that room and no one was in the kitchen because she would have heard them.  The limited remaining options made Molly’s chest began to tighten.  “Where is she?”

“My bedroom.”

The validation of her fears took the wind out of Molly’s sails.  “Why is she in there?”

“I’d think that would be obvious.”

“I don’t…”  She shook her head.  “I don’t understand.  Why would you…”

“I told you before that I had a question that needed to be answered,” Sherlock reminded her.  “So I conducted an experiment to test the theory, but I wouldn’t be a very good scientist if I didn’t consider the variables.”

“Var—” Molly huffed softly, closing her eyes as she tried to reign in her emotions.  “So she’s a variable?”

“No.  She’s the control sample.”

Molly opened her eyes.  “Who is she?”

“Irene Adler.”

If Molly had felt bad before, now she felt worse.  She had never met the infamous Irene Adler, but she knew her by reputation.  Sherlock had been taken with her and he knew her well enough to identify a naked body that was believed to be her corpse.  Molly had always wondered how he had such intimate knowledge of the woman in question, but she didn’t like the answers that were being formulated in her head.

“It was never me was it?” she asked in barely a whisper.  “You kept me on a string like a puppet for all these years,” she accused with a wavering voice.  “And the sad part is that I let you do it.  I knew…”  She scoffed.  “I always knew that you were only saying what you thought I wanted to hear, but I kept convincing myself that deep down you  _really_ meant it.  I told myself that one day you would finally see that I was good enough for you.”  She shook her head again.  “But I was wrong.  You’re the one who isn’t good enough.”

“Are you done?” Sherlock asked with an air of disinterest.

Molly nodded quickly.  “More than you know.”  She turned and walked down the stairs with her head held high.

To her credit, Molly didn’t shed a single tear the whole way home.  It wasn’t until she returned to her bedroom that her emotion overtook her.  Memories that had made her so happy that memory brought forth a flood of angry tears.

Never again, she told herself.  After today, she would not shed another solitary tear for that man.  She deserved love and happiness and so much more than being part of some stupid bloody experiment.  She deserved someone who would appreciate her to the fullest and Sherlock Holmes, that one at least, was not the one.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock retained an air of stony indifference as Molly made her accusations, none of which he bothered to mount a defence against.  He had no interest in a discussion and only sought to hasten her exit.  He let out a short sigh of relief as he watched her descend the staircase then waited half a second before picking up the canvas he had examining prior to her arrival.

The painting had come into his possession the evening before.  The moment he arrived home, after a day of consulting with Lestrade, he could tell someone had been in his flat.  It was none of the usual occupants.  They all had their quirks and rituals that left tell-tale signs of their activities.  This presence was new and deliberate.  The air was scented by the faint aroma of women’s perfume mingled with turpentine.  An odour he traced back to his bedroom and the canvas he now held.

Perched upon a pillow on the right side of his bed was a painting of a sleeping Molly.  The bedroom was not his own and it was entirely possible that it had been created at random, but his deductions about the piece of art and its meaning drove his need for verification.  He arrived at Molly’s flat shortly afterwards to gather the proof that he required and received his confirmation.  The bedroom was the same as the one in the painting and every detail, from the floral print duvet to the frames on the walls and the cat toys scatters about, had been painstakingly reproduced.

Sherlock offered no explanation for his sudden interest in her sleeping quarters and instead distracted her with another spontaneous sexual interlude.  He remained by her side through the night out of curiosity of the artist’s reaction and perhaps partially out of desire to keep a watchful eye over his pathologist.  In the morning, he left unannounced and returned to Baker Street where he was greeted by the smell of perfume and turpentine as well as the blonde artist responsible for the mysterious painting.

“Late night?” Jamie asked with a vaguely salacious smile.

“Early morning?” Sherlock retorted, as he removed his coat.  He noted her relaxed posture.  She sat in his chair with her high heels left to the side and her bare feet tucked beneath her.  A pot of tea sat at her right along with two cups, only one of which was used.  Across from her in John’s chair sat the painting.  “Does my brother know you’re here?”

“Which?” she countered.  “I imagine that there isn’t much that goes on in London that escapes Mycroft eyes…nor his cameras.  As for Sherlock, well I’m doubtful.  He would have made contact by now.  Though, I suppose it’s only a matter of time before we have our joyous reunion.”

“You sent him away?” Sherlock stated rather than asked.

“A case I knew would pique his interest.  I wanted to have you to myself.”

“And so you do.”

“Do I?” Jamie questioned as she moved to stand.  “She’ll come for you, you know, your little lab rat.  And when she does, I want you to ensure that she doesn’t return,” she commanded before breezing past him and headed towards his bedroom.

Sherlock didn’t question or attempt to stop her.  Instead, he picked up the painting and studied it thoughtful until Molly arrived.

Jamie re-joined him following Molly’s departure.  “That went well,” she joked from the doorway.  “Pretty little poppet, isn’t she?  A bit on the mousey side, but pretty nonetheless,” she commented as she took a seat in his chair and slipped her shoes back on.  “I know the type.”

“It’s done,” Sherlock said blandly.

“Is it?” she questioned with a dangerous twinkle in her eyes.  “She already thinks we’re shagging.  Why not give into our desires?”  She stood up again and strode over to him.  “Take your pick,” she said, running a hand over his chest.   “Jamie.  Or…”  She switched an American accent.  “Irene.”

Sherlock pushed her hand away.  “Neither.”

“What’s wrong?  Am I not your type?” Jamie goaded in her natural accent.  “Perhaps I should have you over my knee like the real Irene Adler,” she suggested.  “Tell me, William.  How long do you think you can hold out before I have you on all four begging me for mercy?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.  “I don’t beg.”

Jamie smirked.  “All dogs beg if you dangling the right thing in front of them,” she insisted, moving over to John’s chair.  She crossed her legs at the knees when she sat down.  Back straight and eyes alert, she meant business this time.

“Is that what this is?” Sherlock questioned, gesturing to the canvas.

“She’s a heavy sleeper,” Jamie said.  “Quite an unfortunate habit really.  Danger could be standing right over her and she wouldn’t even see it coming.”  She met Sherlock’s eyes.  “It would be a shame if some tragic fate were to befall her.”

“Are you threatening her?”

“Threat?”  Jamie smiled brightly.  “Threats often times can be idle and I assure you that I am not an idle woman, William.  And unlike my brother, you’ll find that I have no need for overdramatic pretence.  I may prefer to operate in the shadows, but please don’t misunderstand me.  I don’t mind getting my hands dirty.  I’ll slit her throat and paint you a portrait with her blood,” she told him without blinking an eye.

“This is your idea of not being dramatic?” Sherlock countered.

Jamie smirked.  “You got me there.”

“Why do you care?  She’s no one.”

Jamie tsked.  “Everybody is somebody to someone.  Unless you’re in the habit of composing songs for just anyone,” she replied.  “However…I suppose I will let her live.  For a price.”

“Go on.”

“Sherlock left New York because of you.  As such, I want  _you_ to ensure his return.”

Sherlock exhaled sharply through his nose.  “And how do you propose I do that?”

Jamie shrugged.  “You’re brilliant.  Think of something.”  She stood up and headed for the door.  “Oh and William,” she glanced over her shoulder at him with a grin.  “Be quick.  I don’t have time to waste and your little mouse’s life’s depends on it,” she informed him.  “Fail me and the next time you see her in the morgue…she’ll be on one of the slabs.”


End file.
